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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25100518">Familiar Flames (discontinued)</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/pinkfire/pseuds/pinkfire'>pinkfire</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>NCT (Band), WayV (Band)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Angst with a Happy Ending, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Mythical Beings &amp; Creatures, Nightmares, Past Character Death, Slow Romance, Trauma, Werewolves, Witches</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 06:22:44</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,828</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25100518</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/pinkfire/pseuds/pinkfire</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Ten didn't think he deserved to find another familiar, let alone a loving werewolf Kun who smells like sweets and warm bread.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Chittaphon Leechaiyapornkul | Ten/Qian Kun</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>7</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>39</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Familiar Flames (discontinued)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>“Wretched monster!”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Murderer!”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Mangled, scratchy voices rip through his ears, slicing into his brain like hot barbs. He can’t breathe. Rough, thick twine is bound so tightly around his ribs that his lungs can’t expand and can’t let air in. It’s probably better this way since the air is filled with flames; it would burn to inhale. “Please, please stop,” he cries, but the mob’s voices and crackling of fire drown it out. He squirms and thrashes and tries to get free, making the splintering wood of the stake he’s tied to rip his skin. Blood seeps into the fibers of the wood and the twine, painting it a sickening red. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>The chants continue as flames begin to lick up his legs, catching on the twine and searing his skin to the same crimson of his blood. His vision is consumed by orange and red, blurred by tears. It’s overwhelming. The pain, the smoke, the relentless shrieks; </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“You’re sick! A menace to our society! Useless.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Useless. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Useless. </em>
</p><p>“Stop!” Ten’s strained scream cuts through the stale quiet of his cottage. He takes in a long gasp, sucking air into his lungs to the point where it’s painful as if he just surfaced from an excruciating minute under the surface of a lake.</p><p>It’s winter, so the crisp breeze seeps through his uninsulated wooden ceiling, calling for a lit fireplace and a plethora of mink fur and chimera mane blankets. He’s scrambling to peel the cocoon of blankets from his flaming, sweat-soaked skin, kicking them away as hot tears flood down his cheeks and over the edge of his jaw. The normally silken blond of his hair is matted and wet, nappy in the back, and stuck against his sharp cheekbones.</p><p>With a prompt flick of his wrist, the stuffy air sweeps through the fireplace and trades flames for a faint puff of smoke. Silvery moonlight shines in the absence of golden flames, bathing the oak floorboards and highlighting Ten’s tears. He’s still crying, but it’s just a defeated series of whimpers and sniffles. Nightmares don’t simply scare him, well, they absolutely scare him, but the harshest impact is how weak they make him feel. Just when he’s beginning to feel some elasticity in his tendons, sharpness in his mind, sturdiness in his bones, they come back to drag him under again. To remind him that he <em>can’t </em>resurface.</p><p>When the tears subside and the cold nips at his skin once again, he blows on the embers in his fireplace, instantly igniting a wall of flames. The floor is cool underneath his legs when he sinks to the floor and rubs his hands together in the wavering orange glow. He makes the mistake of looking at them, and it brings a sharp pang to his chest. To see the scar from his mistakes, it drags a dagger through his heart, twists it in a sick show of brutality. A stretch of cracking, crimson skin engulfs the entirety of his right hand, licking over his forearm in a taunting pattern of swirls and jagged cracks. His fingernails bloom a deep burgundy as if the flesh underneath is taken over by blood blisters.</p><p>He relaxes in the warm radiance of his fireplace for some time.</p><p>When he has nightmares, he never goes back to sleep before sunrise. Sometimes he stays awake for days, even <em>weeks</em>. As a witch, he doesn’t need rest to live, but the absence of it causes weakness in powers, gaunt limbs, undereye shadows as dark as coals.</p><p>He doesn’t need powers or a lively appearance. He rarely leaves his patch of woods.</p><p>Once the simmering globe of the sun begins to peek over treetops, Ten tugs an off-white blouse over his head, steps into a worn-out pair of trousers and fur-lined boots, and shrugs a thick fleece cloak over his shoulders. He never feels fully dressed until he slips a glove onto his right hand, the same worn black leather that’s covered his palm for thirty years.</p><p>Freshly fallen snow crunches and flattens under the ridges of Ten’s boots, holding a new pattern of sloshy brown shoeprints where he walks. His kitchen needs restocking and he needs lake water for the basin of his tub. After last night, his skin is sticky and uncomfortable with dried sweat under his attire. He needs a bath more than anything. As for food, a basket of fresh apples will do for now. He’d rather keep the strange texture of fruit away from his palette, but he also wouldn’t want to face acquaintances at the market who would inevitably start up painful small talk with him. So, he totes a woven basket into the forest, locates his favorite apple tree, the one which bears apples all year round thanks to his careful tending to it, and inspects the ripeness of the fruits.</p><p>He’s quite too short to reach the apples, so he closes his eyes and mumbles the Latin word for <em>levitation</em>. Magic gets harder to use as the days go on; it feels like he needs to push against the ground to get his feet out of the snow, floating with his heavy cloak billowing like the lake’s gentle waves, soft strands of hair floating around his head. The breeze brushes over the pale skin of his face, dusting a rosy cold burn over his cheeks and across the bridge of his nose. He plucks a few ripe apples from their stems, plops them into his basket, then the abrupt sound of bare feet padding through the snow startles him, snapping him out of focus for his spell. His apples roll into the snow, striking red against white when he tumbles onto his hands and knees.</p><p>A small giggle erupts from behind a tree.</p><p>“Liu Yangyang, I swear on my eternity that I will eviscerate you,” Ten grumbles, standing to his feet so he can dust melting clumps of snow from his knees.</p><p>“Not my fault that you’re jumpy.” Yangyang emerges from his hiding spot, minty eyes shimmering with youth as he flashes a gummy smile, tossing a plump apple from hand to hand. “This forest is <em>my</em> baby, after all.” Nymphs get under Ten’s skin unlike any other, but Yangyang is so charming and caring that he couldn’t sweep him away, not in a million years. This forest <em>is</em> his, as well. He tends to it like a mother, takes care of baby animals, and breathes life into the flora.</p><p>He’s only donning a white tunic since he changes with the forest’s seasons and the cold has no effect on his soft skin. As if he’s a rabbit with its winter coat, his hair has gone a snowy white, lavender at the ends, so it’s easier to see leaves that have snuck into the sleek strands. If Ten didn’t know any better, he would say Yangyang is no more than a childish tween.</p><p>“You could at least start with a greeting.”</p><p>“Not my thing,” he shrugs. Yangyang lives unapologetically, free. “Yukhei has been worried about you. You haven’t seen the village in weeks.”</p><p>“I’m not worth worrying about.” Ten crouches to recollect his apples, wiping the dead leaves and snow off their skin before dropping them into his basket. He doesn’t want to look up and endure Yangyang’s austere expression. When he says things to hint at his dangerously low self-esteem, it gets under the skin of those who would consider themselves his friends.</p><p>“You’re worth <em>that</em> and much more. Yukhei misses you. Would you please pay him a visit for me?”</p><p>Ah, there it is. Ten is distant to the world, but he could never reject someone else's need for a favor. He jumps at any opportunity to make his solemn existence worth <em>something</em>, whether it be casting a spell to carry groceries back to Yukhei’s hut, making herbal remedies for ill animals in the forest, or something as simple as posing for Xiaojun’s portrait practice. Xiaojun’s brushwork is absolutely breathtaking, but the sight of himself in the majestic, soft strokes of oil paint fills him with some dreadful feeling. He doesn’t feel worthy of becoming a muse, but Xiaojun insists that his striking, feline-like features are pleasant to replicate on canvas. He isn’t as noble as he once was, but he’s building himself up brick by brick with the small things. At least he’s trying.</p><p>He hums, pretending to mull it over. “Perhaps, I will visit him at noon.”  </p><p>“Thank you, Ten. We love you.”</p><p>Ten’s heart tightens in his chest. No matter how many times they say they love him, it <em>hurts</em>. He wants to feel warm and safe and cared for, he wants to, but the words have become just that to him. Just words. He would give anything to feel the words in his heart again, but there’s nothing he can do. Not even magic can sew a soul back together. So, every time he hears it, it reminds him of how untethered he is to passion and the spirits of others. He doesn’t have the heart to tell anyone this, so he curls his lips into a smile that doesn’t touch his eyes, replying with an empty “I love you, too.”</p><p>“Take care of yourself, Ten. There’s a new nest of baby birds today, so I should go check up on them,” Yangyang says with a fond look in his eyes as if he birthed the animals himself. The deep connection he has with nature makes Ten envious of nymphs. He genuinely loves his flora and fauna, feels what his forest feels. If there’s rain seeping into the soil, it seeps into Yangyang’s skin. Ten can’t be bitter about it, though. What Yangyang has is beautiful.</p><p>He perks up at what Yangyang said, hopping toward yet another opportunity to contribute something to this cold world. “Oh, should I prepare a potion for their health?” It provides a distraction, brewing herbs and following the worn Latin script in his tomes. He’s become rusty on magic so he tries to practice when he can, with purpose so he won’t waste the jars of potion supply (plants, herbs, minerals) that he collected on his last expedition thirty-five years ago.</p><p>“That would be wonderful if you have time!”</p><p>“Trust me, I have all the time in the world.” And he does. As a witch, age isn’t a worry. He still carries the looks of a twenty-six-year-old after eight and a half long centuries of life. In recent years he feels as if he’s aged, his face becoming sharper and his maturity radiating like a glow. Even with the apples of his cheeks pink from the cold wind, supple and flawless, the wear and tear of life on his soul shines with the reflection of snow in his pupils.</p><p>“Thank you again, I’ll be going,” Yangyang beams, tossing his apple into Ten’s basket before dashing away, leaving a trail of footprints in his wake. The rich lavender in his hair dances in the wind. Ah, to be young in spirit again.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Ten hasn’t gone to the village in two and a half weeks. He’s holed himself up in his cottage with the small excuse of keeping warm during winter like a hibernating bear. He just feels safest in the familiar warmth of his little cottage in the woods, <em>alone</em>. He doesn’t want to see happy people; he doesn’t want to have conversations that feel like pulling teeth because he’s just so distant. It’s like he’s listening from the other side of a thick mahogany door with an endless line of metal locks running up the edge. Each interaction leaves him feeling more drained from the last. So, he hid in his cottage for weeks, but he still feels just as drained. He’s trapped in his own pit of emptiness. It’s not the kind of emptiness that leaves you feeling nothing but calm, it’s the kind that gnaws at your stomach like unsolvable hunger.</p><p>Since he hasn’t been out in far too long, he should try to look presentable, like he hasn’t been mentally rotting away, he reasons. His hair is still dripping pearls of water into the ridge of his collarbone and the scent of rosemary and citrus bathwater still lingers thick on his skin as he gets dressed. He pulls on a silky, almost metallic plum blouse that ties up his chest, his crispest pair of black slacks and the same boots from earlier just to keep his feet warm. For the first time in so long that he fears the holes might have vanished, he slides a randomly picked collection of crystal and pearl earrings into his lobes and cartilage, drapes an obsidian pendant around his neck. He even dusts sparkling charcoal powder over his eyelids.</p><p>He can’t wear his favorite cloak—a light, silky, emerald green garment with golden floral embellishments that sways with his movements like a sea of sparkling jade—since it’s much too cold outside. Even witches are immensely uncomfortable in the cold.</p><p>He settles with another cloak, one that’s thick and lined with luxury furs in a black so dark that it almost sucks its surroundings in. While fashion used to be one of Ten’s biggest concerns, now it’s less important. It hasn’t been as significant since the leather glove that he’s sliding onto his scarred hand became a permanent accessory. It puts any outfit off-kilter. Maybe if he were thirty years younger, he would’ve chosen the emerald green cloak. Beauty is pain, after all.</p><p>Water droplets are still cascading down the back of his neck and soaking into the delicate fabric of his blouse. He should probably dry off before waltzing into the cold. Closing his eyes, he pulls the files of his mind and tries to grasp at the spell he uses to dry his hair, but he can’t <em>remember</em>. If only he had time to thumb through the thick stack of yellowing pages bound in his tomes and locate the spell. He sighs, frowning at his reflection in the mirror. He was once one of the most praised witches in the world, but he can’t even remember a spell so simple.</p><p>As if to prove that he still has it, Ten decides to teleport instead of walking today. He rummages through his creaky and worn-out cabinets to pull out a porcelain teacup, a hefty jar of salt, a chip of agate, a neem twig. Water is poured into the teacup and mixed with salt, the agate sitting against the delicate porcelain at the bottom. Ten swirls the twig around in the concoction until he sees a faint yellowish glow in the fiber of wood. There’s salty water dripping onto his floorboard when he pulls the twig out and points it like a wand, closing his eyes and thinking of <em>Yukhei, Yukhei, Yukhei</em>. The spell would have called for a personal item of his if Yukhei’s hut weren’t charted territory for Ten. When he feels warm energy pulsing through his hand in waves, he drags the twig into a slow, wide oval in the air. The twig cuts through space like a dagger through tapestry, ripping a glowing and sparking yellow line into nothing. He closes off the oval and the air between it wavers and fades until a portal into Yukhei’s hut is opened. Success.</p><p>Yukhei has his back to Ten, sitting on a plush lambskin rug that matches the color of his light hair, hunched over a novel. The soft light that pours through his sheer curtains catches in his hair.</p><p>Ten slides his new teleportation wand into the fleece lining of his boot before extending a leg into the portal and ducking to fit. The portal flickers, wavers, and disappears as soon as he stands straight in the warmth of Yukhei’s hut.</p><p>Yukhei twists his spine to look up at Ten, flashing a smile that the sun can’t even hold a torch to. “Ten!” he cheers, scrambling to his feet at an alarming speed. Before Ten can blink, he’s scooped into a tight, warm hug, pressed against the earthy smell of Yukhei’s shirt. His toes stretch to reach the ground to no avail. It’s a good thing witches don’t need to breathe. “You know, knocking is a thing, but I’ll let it slide this time because I missed you.”</p><p>“Know your strength,” Ten wheezes, boots sinking into fleece when he’s released from Yukhei’s embrace.</p><p>“You’re fine.” Yukhei sticks his tongue out before picking his book up to shelve it. He’s facing his bookshelf when he says, “you’ve been taking care of yourself, right?”</p><p>“Of course.” Physically, maybe.</p><p>Yuhkei hums. “You need to get out more.” A lightbulb clicks on above his mess of white hair. “There’s a new bakery in the village, do you want to pick up some bread for your cottage?”</p><p>Ten <em>is</em> dressed well for the first time in a while and he could always hide behind Yukhei’s tall frame and friendly personality if he’s not up for conversation. Besides, it would make Yukhei happy. He probably doesn’t have an option either. Yukhei’s already slipping his arms into a thick beige parka. “Sure.”</p><p>Yukhei entertains Ten with conversation about random village drama, the weather and books he’s been reading as they walk over the slippery, freshly shoveled cobblestone paths. A few acquaintances stop them to ask Ten what he’s been up to or compliment his attire. The new bakery isn’t very far from Yukhei’s hut. It’s small and quaint, wooden planks for walls and hay roof, patches of yellow flowers blooming just under the windows, a string of white paper lanterns stretched from the chimney to a nearby tree swaying in the wind. A wooden sign that has curly script painted onto it in mint green reads <em>bakery</em> in Latin, simple. It must be worthwhile since there are plenty of villagers hovering outside and enjoying bread and pastries.</p><p>The warm, inviting scents of cinnamon, tea, and freshly baked loaves of bread swirl into Ten’s senses. His stomach rumbles a little violently at the presence of good, filling food. He hasn’t had anything good in almost two weeks.</p><p>Yukhei takes in a loud breath through his nostrils, almost skipping toward the counter to peek at the wooden shelves and baskets full of braided bread, baguettes, and buttery croissants. “Doesn’t it smell good in here?”</p><p>“Amazing,” Ten agrees, hovering at Yukhei’s side and eyeing the baked goods. He has an urge to purchase half the stock.</p><p>“Yukhei, is that you?” A cheery, honey-like voice sounds from the kitchen. It caresses Ten’s eardrums like a soft feather, dragging a pleasant shudder through his spine. The sudden sensation is like a punch to the gut after so many numb years. Ten wraps his arms around his own middle as if he’s trying to keep himself from crumbling into a puddle of warmth, eyes flitting toward the figure emerging from the kitchen doorway. The man is wearing an apron that’s covered in flour and spices, a natural smile that looks like it’s at home on his face. He looks mature yet filled with a playful youth and free spirit with supple cheeks that look soft to the touch and a wild mess of curly, blue-gray hair. He’s handsome.</p><p>Ten’s heart kicks up in his chest, pumping a faint rosy flush over his cheeks. The feeling is almost too much, more than a light teenage crush and past anything romantic. It’s spiritual. He hasn’t felt it in over thirty years. The last time he felt this was with his previous familiar, but this man is a <em>person</em>, not an animal. It can’t be that.</p><p>“Yeah, I brought a friend,” Yukhei says, placing a firm palm over Ten’s shoulder and pulling him from his trance. “This is Ten.”</p><p>The baker flashes his pearly teeth in a polite smile toward Ten. His eyes are dark and warm, seeming to prod right into Ten’s soul, right past his thick concrete walls. Ten can only nod, lips pressed into a line and form sinking deeper into his cloak. “Nice to meet you! I’m Kun.”</p><p>Ten bites his lip, hesitant to speak.</p><p>“Sorry, he’s really reserved,” Yukhei apologizes. “Can I have a baguette?”</p><p>“That’s quite all right, five coins for a baguette.” Kun’s eyes still hardly leave Ten’s. “Would you like anything, Ten?”</p><p>Ten can feel heat rising over his neck at the sound of his name on Kun’s lips. Yukhei is looking at the two of them with a furrowed brow, full of confusion, he just knows it. Out of politeness, he pushes through his shyness to ask, “what would you recommend?”</p><p>“Oh, the villagers tell me that they love my croissants.”</p><p>“Okay, then I’ll take three. And a loaf of bread. And one of those raspberry tarts. No, make that three as well, please,” Ten lists off, eyes darting around the products to avoid Kun’s warm glare. It prickles on his skin like sunlight.</p><p>Kun chuckles and turns to collect what Ten asked for, picking up a basket and placing the goods into it carefully. “Yukhei, you might have competition for your spot as number one customer.”</p><p>“Hey, I was here first!”</p><p>“What does that matter?” He places the basket on the counter and starts wrapping Yukhei’s baguette in brown parchment paper, using deft fingers to tie it with twine. “He’s already bought more than you.”</p><p>Ten and Yukhei pay while Yukhei rambles dramatically about Kun’s “abhorrent” behavior. With red still blooming over Ten’s skin, he tugs on Yukhei’s parka and leaves the bakery as quickly as possible. Kun’s presence is much too overwhelming for Ten right now. He isn’t ready to have a connection with someone; he isn’t <em>worth </em>that. He’s only been outside his cottage for less than an hour and he already wants to hibernate again. His lungs feel tight, making his breaths short puffs that create white clouds in the cold air. Maybe he’s just feeling weird and jittery because he’s seen a new pretty face for the first time in some months.</p><p>“What was that about?” Yukhei asks, taking a large bite of the baguette in his hand.</p><p>Ten huffs and throws his hood over his head, plucking a croissant from his basket and sinking his teeth into it. It’s soft and delicate, almost crumbling in his fingers, and the shiny butter and honey concoction on top is a perfect mix of sweet and savory. The warm and sweet taste practically dissolves against his taste buds as he chews, one of his pink cheeks puffed out. He’s going to ask Yukhei to buy him more someday.</p><p>“Embarrassed, huh? Was that like…” Yukhei pauses and looks around dramatically before leaning close to Ten’s ear, nose pressed against the black fabric of his hood. “Was that sexual tension?”</p><p>Ten’s eyes widen the size of plates as he chokes on his second bite of croissant. He coughs against the wide sleeve of his cloak, wheezing an exasperated <em>no</em> into his elbow.</p>
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